


It Worked the First Time, Didn't It?

by Spitshine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, HYDRA Trash Party adjacent, M/M, Sex Pollen, power bottom!Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1934: Bucky doses himself with a powerful aphrodisiac in hopes he'll finally have the courage to act on his attraction to Steve. </p><p>2015: After learning about Bucky's history of abuse at the hands of HYDRA, Steve is terrified of hurting Bucky and their sexual relationship is somewhat stilted as a result. Bucky figures it worked once... but this time, Steve finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the February Trash Compactor Challenge: Bucky Barnes/the Winter Soldier (depending on when you choose to situate this chronologically) intentionally doses himself with sex pollen.
> 
> The next two chapters are forthcoming; I just wanted to make sure at least some of it got posted in February.

Bucky isn't stupid. He can see the way Steve looks at him, has looked at him for years now, his little Stevie, like he—like he...

He isn't stupid, but he isn't that great with words, either. It's different, with dames. It's what they want, what they expect, and it's easy to turn on the charm and be exactly what someone expects of you.

And he wants Steve, god help him, he does. He doesn't know what that says about him, that he could have any girl in the neighborhood—that he doesn't, they chalk up to his being such a gentleman—but hell, Steve doesn't expect this. Otherwise, why would he hide it? Or try to, anyways.

So he stops by a bar he knows on the way home from the docks one night, a place he knows the fellas who refused to retire when Prohibition ended hang out, and asks around. He gets a few answers, a few leads, and trudges home to Steve, hoping like hell this will be the right choice.

Steve has dinner waiting when he gets there, simple and hot and almost enough for both of them. He makes Steve take the seconds because the boy could use it, the boy could always use it, and because... well, if this is the wrong choice, maybe keeping Steve healthy will make up for it in the end.

He stops by that same bar on his way home two nights later, slinks to the back room and forks over money he's too embarrassed to haggle over, high though it seems for such a small vial. He waits until Steve falls asleep to hide it way back on the highest shelf of the deepest cupboard, where Stevie could never reach, not even standing on the kitchen chair, and spends two weeks trying to forget about it.

He doesn't forget about it. He tries like hell to avoid _that_ bar, the Sullivan gang, that whole area of the neighborhood—but they keep seeking him out, cracking rude jokes from across the street, asking rowdily what happened to the poor dame he used it on, and he just—

Bucky gets home before Steve one night as summer's fading into fall, the latest heat wave finally breaking enough for the garbage smell of the tenements to fade, and he doesn't think, he doesn't, he just marches into the kitchen, pulls the little bottle out and downs it all. He replaces the empty bottle—he'll throw it out sometime, but for now, he needs there to not be evidence. He collapses onto the hard wooden chair and hides his face in his arms, trying not to count the seconds until Steve gets home.

Trying and failing.

He doesn't even bother trying to ignore the erection growing steadily thicker in his pants. That was the whole point, wasn't it?

By the time Steve gets home from his Tuesday evening class, Bucky's face is red and every breath is a struggle. Whatever was in that fucking bottle, it works. Steve hangs up his bag and jacket, sags into their one armchair—tired, as always, from the long trek home—before he looks up and really notices Bucky.

“Buck? Are you... okay?”

Bucky centers himself, steels his willpower, turns his face to make eye contact, croaks, “Stevie?”

“Yeah, buddy, you... have a fever, maybe? You're all...” Steve heaves himself out of the chair and starts over to check on Bucky.

“Not—sick,” he manages.

“Then wh-” and that's all Bucky can take. He's already regretting this, the idea, the purchase, actually drinking the damn thing, but hell, holding himself in around Steve is near impossible at the best of times. He springs up from his chair, setting the table to wobbling, and launches himself at Steve. Grabs the smaller man by the collar, hauls him up until their faces meet. It takes a second of awkward clashing, of noses getting in the way and teeth clanking against each other, but then they're kissing.

They're kissing.

Steve is kissing back.

“God, Stevie,” Bucky moans into the man's mouth. “I just—fuck, I need you.”

“What? I mean—you're not a—you always—”

“I always what? I'm not a what? I _want_ you, Stevie, I fucking need you, touching me, inside me... please.” He's not proud of how he whimpers that last word, but it's too late to be helped now. 

“You always... with the dames. I mean—you don't look like a, like a—like I do,” Steve finishes weakly.

“You tellin' me I can't possibly want you 'cause I'm bigger'n you? 'Cause I don't look like a fairy?” Steve nods. “Yeah, well, I do. Holy hell, I've wanted you for years now. And the way I want you... I want you inside me, I wanna suck you off and I want, I need you to fuck me. Make me yours, Stevie.”

“You—but I don't know—I've never—how do I?”

“I haven't either, but I—I read about it, a little, and you hafta, uh, I mean,” Bucky gives up on words and returns to kissing, pushing Steve back into the armchair as he does. Kissing is good. Kissing he knows. Kissing doesn't make him blush or stammer or trip over his words.

It does, however, make him whine and whimper and rub his ass on Steve's clothed dick like a bitch in heat, bucking against Steve's hips like that's what he was named for, makes him moan and pant and beg, words muffled by Steve's lips but the meaning plain all the same. “Fuck, Steve. Do you—do you want this?”

“Yes, oh god Buck, want you so bad-” Bucky cuts him off with another heated kiss before collapsing gracelessly to his knees between Steve's spread thighs. He hums happily to himself at the broken gasp Steve lets out when the cool night air breathes across Steve's newly-exposed cock. He yanks the pants down further but gives up when he hits shoes, impatient to get that dick in his mouth already.

He feels his own eyes roll back in his head at the taste, at the feel. Jesus. It's just the perfect size to fill his mouth, a little more than he can take easily, and it scratches the itch that's been building insistently since he downed whatever-the-hell it was hours ago. Even quieted by his mouth, he moans loud enough that Steve yanks on his hair to hush him up.

That backfires.

He groans when the sharp pain pricks across his scalp and shifts so he's on his hands and knees now, arches his back and wriggles his hips in the unconscious desire that Steve will notice just how much he _needs_ and take pity on him. The fabric of his boxers are rough against his over-sensitive dick, but the pants are just tight enough, provide enough friction that he doesn't care about the discomfort, is only focused on the sensation of absolutely anything dragging across his needy hole.

“Steve, shit, Stevie, you hafta get me ready. Open me up,” Bucky whines as soon as he's desperate enough to be past shame, past humiliation. “Use your fingers.”

“Do you—slick?”

“I have, fuck, Vaseline,” Bucky moans into Steve's dick, humping shallowly against the floor. “In the—let me—” With a pained whimper, he pulls himself away and runs to the bathroom, runs back. 

Steve looks a little stunned when he returns, but glances up to ask, “Do you want to go to the bedroom?”

“More room on the floor.” He presses the tin to Steve's hands before shucking his clothes to the side. Steve groans and palms his dick when Bucky lays down on his back, legs falling wide, and groans louder when Bucky grabs his hips and tugs him down to get sucked.

Bucky moans appreciatively when Steve's cock hits his throat and spreads his legs even wider, humping helplessly up, seeking Steve's touch, Steve's cock in his ass, filling him—he can't remember ever wanting anything more, ever being so fucking desperate.

Steve's fingers rub a dollop of the goop around his asshole before one blunt fingertip pushes in. Something deep inside him sighs, relaxes into the promise of finally being filled. He breathes out and opens for Steve, takes the finger to the hilt. He tries to talk, realizes he can't, and pulls off Steve's cock only long enough to plead, “More, Stevie, fuck, please.”

“Your ass is fucking hungry, doll. So goddamn beautiful.” Steve pushes another finger in and Bucky almost sobs at the sensation, more overwhelming than anything he's felt before but somehow still not enough. His head falls back, mouth empty, as he comes on Steve's fingers, dick shooting off untouched across his bare chest.

“Open me on your cock, Steve,” Bucky begs as soon as he comes down. “I don't care, I need you.”

“I'm not gonna hurt you.”

“Hurry, then. Please.” Steve slips another finger in and Bucky relaxes again as an itch deep inside him starts to get scratched. Steve pumps him with his fingers for a few more minutes before even his patience wears out and he pulls his own clothes off before again kneeling between Bucky's thighs, lining himself up. “Now, Stevie-”

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve groans as his head slips in, visibly forcing himself to still his hips even as Bucky wiggles to take him deeper.

“Give it to me, oh god, give it to me hard, please, please.” Bucky plants his feet and pushes against Steve and finally, finally his ass fucking swallows the whole cock and he comes immediately, crying out in relief at being full and grinding his ass against Steve's hips. “Fill me up, baby, I need your come.”

“You can't just say that stuff, Bucky,” Steve gasps as he gives it to Bucky hard. “I'm going to-”

“Yes yes _yes_ ,” Bucky chants as he feels Steve unload inside him, slips his hand down and jerks once, twice, and he's coming for the third time that night. Steve collapses onto his chest, panting and sweaty. “We're—it's not a one time thing, is it?”

“I don't want it to be, Buck. I'm... I'm with you til the end of the line, too.”

Bucky hums in contentment for a moment. And then Steve's dick softens enough to slip out, and Bucky whines at the loss.

Steve shifts to the side and smiles sleepily into Bucky's neck, but his eyes pop wide awake when he realizes what Bucky's up to. “Sheesh, what's gotten into you?” 

“Feel so empty.”

“How many fingers is that?”

“Two... three.”

“Mmm, give me a minute. And ride me this time, m'gonna have an asthma attack if I pound you like that again tonight.”

“M'so-”

“Don't even start.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: indirect references to Bucky's Trash Past (torture, sexual and otherwise, at the hands of Hydra).

“It worked before, didn't it?” Bucky mutters to himself, late one night. Steve excused himself and went to bed half an hour ago, after a couple of chaste kisses and a complete inability on both of their parts to talk about what they want.

He hadn't meant to do it, not really. He didn't have time to think before he said anything, standing in the doorway at the last Hydra base they'd raided. Steve came up behind him fast and quiet, said “Anything here?” and Bucky jumped. This... he hadn't known this particular room was in this particular base, hadn't ever wanted to see it again, but more than anything didn't want Steve to see it, see it and see his face and start questions only to drop them two syllables in, unwilling as always to make Bucky at all uncomfortable.

So he'd turned quickly and blocked the half-open door with his shoulders, thick with armor and holsters, and said, “Doesn't look like it.”

“Check it for papers?”

Bucky nodded once, curtly, but it wasn't necessary. Steve might phrase his order like requests, but on a mission he was _Cap_ and they were orders no matter the intonation.

He was already striding down the hallway, anyway, calling over his shoulder as he did. “Five minutes. Front gates. We're gonna blast this place to the Earth's molten core if we don't find anything chemical.”

Shit. Now Bucky really had to search it, and search it good. Some of what was in there, he knew, he remembered. And he'd been planning on skipping those places and looking only for tools to work on his arm. He knew how, the most valuable tool was that which maintained itself, but those goddamn KGB screwdrivers... _shit_.

Four minutes later found Bucky pressing the back of his head into the wall just outside the room, breathing hard through his mouth and clenching his eyes shut as he fumbled a fistful of plastic syringes into his deepest pocket. The instant his task was completed, he'd been sprinting down the hallway, blinking back tears and trying to run fast enough to justify being so out of breath, even though they weren't really long enough between turns to get up to speed.

He'd shut that fucking door behind him and run back to Steve with blinders on and tried like hell not think about the room, the syringes, any of it, since then.

But here he is, eighty one years later and still no good at ignoring how much he wants Steve. Still no good at doing something about it.

Steve knows something about his more... extracurricular Hydra training, but he's not sure how much. Some papers had been found, certainly, which Steve had stammered through explaining about a day after Bucky had come home, about three days after he'd dragged Steve out of the Potomac.

“Don't—Steve, you don't have to tell me. Just burn them. I remember, and no one else needs to know.”

That had been the last they'd talked of it, and the last of Bucky's hope they might pick up where they left off, laughing and wrestling and both trying like hell to get themselves pinned, an even match, finally. But Steve had just looked at him with those big sad eyes, said, “Okay, Buck,” and gone back to his own room, assumedly to burn them. Bucky hadn't followed. Hadn't wanted to see.

But now... he looks over at the crumpled mass of black fabric in the corner. He hasn't touched his gear since they got back nine days ago, hasn't so much as glanced at it. He didn't trust himself, and now he knows he was right. He marches over to the corner and pulls one syringe out, uncaps it without looking and jams it into his thigh right through his pajama pants. He doesn't even like them to sleep in, he thinks hysterically as he depresses the plunger slowly, fighting the syrupy liquid, but he loves to wear them around the house, can't get over how comfortable modern clothes are.

The plunger bottoms out and he flings the needle away, breathes deep once, twice, three times while he waits to heal, wipes the remaining drop of blood away on his pants and goes to knock on Steve's door before he loses his nerve.

Or, more honestly, before the drugs ramp him up so high he can't say anything but, “Give me your cock, please.”

Steve isn't asleep when he knocks, but his voice sounds strained when he replies, “Little busy, Buck. Gimme a minute?”

“But, Steve, I—I need you.” And that works like fucking magic because most of Captain Fucking America will always be scrawny little Steve Rogers, weak and dependent and desperate to be needed. The door swings open and Steve, his Steve, emerges strong and confident and smelling so good, smelling like... Bucky glances over Steve's shoulder, notes the pump bottle conveniently on the bedside table, glances down and his lips turn up. “Want a hand?”

“I have a hand.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Two, actually. Thought you needed me.” He's just awful at pretending to be upset, always has been.

Bucky steps closer. They're both crammed in the doorway now, two super soldiers in a space that's cozy for normal humans. “This is what I needed,” he breathes, hoping he won't have to spell it out.

“You're... sure? I don't want to...”

Bucky sighs, exasperated. “You're not them, you're not ever gonna be them, I'm not ever gonna think you're them. You're my Stevie, and I. Need. You.” He fills the pauses between words with little kisses up Steve's neck, right where he knows he's weakest. “You know it's been seven decades since I had your dick in my mouth? Decades. It's depressing, is what it is. Time was, I could barely go seven hours-”

“Shit, Buck.” Steve's mouth falls open and his head falls back when Bucky sinks to his knees in front of him, infinitely more graceful than the first time all those years ago, and noses insistently at Steve's cock.

“Can't tell you how glad I am the serum didn't touch this, baby. Your cock is so fucking perfect, I'd—I'd swear fealty to it, I'd go on missions for it, I'd go out and commit great heroic deeds in its name like this was the Middle Ages or some shit.” Bucky spews nonsense as he backs Steve up against the bed and pushes him down, only to growl in frustration when Steve's sitting presents a nearly insurmountable obstacle to getting Steve's pants down.

“You just compared my dick to some high born lady giving a knight her favor and waiting demurely at home for him to return from his grand adventures, didn't you?”

Bucky doesn't say anything, mouth full of Steve's balls as it is, but he does shrug and make a “what are you gonna do?” face, which is probably hidden behind Steve's bobbing dick. “I'm just sayin',” he murmurs between licks, “that it's so good already, the finest cock in all the land, and if the serum had done anything to it, well then, I'd _really_ be mad at you for gettin' yourself into that mad scientist shitshow like you did and shipping off to Europe when I expressly told you to stay safe at home for me.”

Steve just groans as his cock disappears slowly into Bucky's mouth and Bucky isn't ashamed to admit that he whimpers at the sound, though that might be the drugs talking. Damn, they act fast. He fumbles the lube off the table with his left hand as he yanks his pants off his ass with his right and slips one finger in without preamble. He sucks Steve, greedy and wet, until he's come in his pants for the second time, got three metal fingers squelching come and lube inside him—given the chance, he'll never be stingy with slick again—and stands up smoothly, knocking Steve back in surprise.

“I'm gonna ride you til my legs give out,” Bucky promises. Steve gulps. He's seen Bucky train; he knows what it would take. Bucky swings a leg over and slips down.

He didn't lie, not to Steve, not ever. Omission is one thing, but out'n'out fibbing, he'd never. He's lost track of the time and he's shooting dry before he amps his rhythm enough to finally let Steve come—poor kid's been on edge all this time—and collapses immediately to one side.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve pants. Bucky almost panics at the asthmatic wheeze in his tone but then remembers, grins lazy and wide, and snuggles deeper into Steve's considerable chest. They lay like that, contented, until Steve's dick falls out of its own accord and Bucky's muscles have remembered how to work. Bucky pulls away (even though Steve gives an adorably pathetic little grumble) and pads to the bathroom to wet a washcloth. Sliquid is a damn sight better than Vaseline, no doubt, but that doesn't mean it tastes good. “God, what's... mmhmmm... oh, you're insatiable tonight, doll.”

“Seventy. Years.” Bucky growls before returning determinedly to his task. He suckles gently through Steve's refractory period but turns merciless the moment he feels Steve throb, tastes the first drop of precome on his tongue. He grins sharply around his mouthful before hollowing his cheeks and setting to with a will, one hand already playing with the jizz leaking from his ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Steve finds out!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warning as chapter two, which is too say, oblique references to Trash Happenings in Bucky's past.

JARVIS lets them sleep, has learned by now that anything told to a human after such a marathon will only have to be repeated later, but causes—accidentally, of course—Captain Rogers to squawk and drop his breakfast the next morning when the AI politely asks if he could give a little warning before engaging in recreational drugs next time, preferably with the active constituents and dosage so that JARVIS may be prepared in case of medical emergency.

“You must be confused. We didn't take anything.”

“I measure all vital signs of Tower residents as well as monitoring any abnormal spikes in brain activity, and I can assure you, you did.”

Captain Rogers leaves his breakfast on the floor and takes the stairs to the ground floor at a sprint. It is his custom to run in the morning, and not unusual for him to be too impatient to wait for the elevator. In JARVIS' considerable study of human beings, they tend to be more easy going after engaging in the activities that Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes did, though the Captain has always been a bit different. JARVIS suspects the serum at work, which may explain some of the Sergeant's peculiarities as well.

More observation is needed.

* * *

Bucky wakes up alone but content, limbs heavy with sleep and satisfaction. He rolls over to the side of the bed that smells more of Steve's sweat and spunk than his own, nuzzles into the pillow and dozes happily.

* * *

“I know what you did—JARVIS tracks all of our vital signs—how could you? I know it's been... not the same, but, Bucky, how could you?”

Bucky blinks awake, scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. He's never seen Steve so irate, not with neighborhood bullies, not with the doctors who wouldn't let him enlist, not when they discovered one last chair in that Hydra base, not ever.

“Twice,” he whispers.

“You—twice? When the fuck did you do that?”

“In the... in the thirties. You remember? I knew you—I saw you looking, I heard you touching yourself, and I knew you would—you would never presume to—you were so upstanding, all of the time, and I wanted you, too, but I couldn't—I didn't—fuck, Stevie-”

A snarl. “Don't call me that.”

“Steve. Steve, what was I supposed to say? 'I know you think about me when you jerk off; can I suck you now?' That—I just couldn't. What if... I could have been wrong. You could've hated me, and then-”

“So that makes it okay to go around drugging people?”

“It wasn't ideal,” Bucky whispers.

“'It wasn't ideal?' Fucking... I can't believe you, Barnes. I thought I knew you. I thought you were god damn with me, with me til the end of the line, but instead you're going around behind my back, drugging-”

“I'm sorry, Steve, I'm so, so sorry. I can promise you, I would never, not again. Not after seeing you like this. If I come to you again, if you want me to again, it'll be just—me, no freaky Hydra drugs, nothing else. Just me.”

“You?”

Bucky blinks. “Yeah, me. I won't... you want my honest responses with no foreign chemicals, I can understand that. I won't give you anything else. And if you don't... if you don't want anything, I'll understand. Try to, anyway.”

“You?” Steve repeats. “But the computer said—I thought you used it on me... shit, Buck, I should've asked JARVIS, I shouldn't have assumed.”

A look of horrified comprehension dawns across Bucky's face. “What? No, no, I drugged myself. I would never—to you, I wouldn't, no matter what. The... what I took last night, they gave it to me before. In the—there was a room, you asked me if there was anything in it?” Steve nods. “I lied. I didn't mean to, I wasn't expecting it. I never knew _where_ that room was, I'd just wake up there sometimes.” His voice drops so low that even Steve's phenomenal hearing can barely pick up on it. “There was a lot in it. A lot. Records—pictures—equipment—I never wanted you to see that, Stevi—Steve. I didn't want you to know. And I know you do know, you told me you found... something. Whatever it was, it probably wasn't all of it. Probably wasn't even that bad. And you wouldn't touch me. Steve, kitten, you barely _looked_ at me. I never would have gone looking for it, not again, not when I felt so guilty after the first time, but then it fell into my lap and I just. I mean, I grabbed it so it wouldn't get into the air when we blew the base up, so we wouldn't all breathe it in, but then... Well, it worked the first time, didn't it? I got—it wasn't as strong as what Hydra used, of course, but it still—I didn't have any inhibitions after that. You remember?”

Steve exhales, a great big sigh so heavy it sounds like it has physical mass. “Yeah, I remember.” He almost smiles, and Bucky would bet money he's remembering that first night together. He seems to have calmed down now, at least, knowing he hadn't been drugged. “Buck, I couldn't ever forget what happened.” Bucky dares to look him in the eyes and is gratified to see a real smile spread across Steve's face. “But you didn't have to—just promise me you'll never do that again, okay? If you come to me... I need to know it's _you_ , okay? Not some drug or old programming or—just you. Nothing else.”

Relief washes over Bucky, so embarrassingly visible that he tries to play it off as a joke. “Sheesh, punk, dontcha trust me?”

Steve closes the distance between them and tilts Bucky's head up until their eyes meet. “No, Bucky, I don't. But—I want to. And I will. I will.”

He pulls Bucky closer, closer, until they're kissing.

It's Bucky who breaks the kiss even though it's the second-to-last thing he wants to do, right after doing wrong by Steve in any way ever again. “I promise, Stevie, I promise. I'll never use a drug like that again. But the programming—I'm not even sure what all Pierce left behind, or what might set it off. I'll try like hell not to let it get through, but I don't wanna make a promise like that, a promise I might not be able to keep.”

“We can talk about that later, Buck. We'll sort it all out, we will. But in the meantime—you know it's been seven decades since I got properly fucked?”


End file.
